


Like Stones in a Running Stream

by inexplicifics



Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [34]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Babies, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28040295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: A collection of small ficlets from tumblr, showing tiny moments in the Accidental Warlord universe.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Aubry (The Witcher), Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet & Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Female Character
Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [34]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661
Comments: 395
Kudos: 2256





	1. Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Ch 1: Nightmare - In which Eskel has a nightmare, and his lovers comfort him  
> Ch 2: Kittens - In which Aubry meets Nosy's kittens  
> Ch 3: Roland In Ard Carraigh - In which Roland has an encounter with the nobility of Kaedwen  
> Ch 4: Ears - In which infant Ciri won't stop crying until Geralt gets creative  
> Ch 5: Mighty Hunter - Aubry's POV on meeting a kitten  
> Ch 6: Kings' Wives - Someone asked what happened to the wives of the kings Geralt overthrows  
> Ch 7: Eist Realizes - Eist figures out why the Warlord looked familiar  
> Ch 8: Jan and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad (Not Utterly Irredeemable) Day - Jan has a bad day; Letho makes it somewhat better

**__** _I can't help but think of Esk waking up with a nightmare about how helpless he felt in the cell because he was unarmed and injured and how scared he was for the others when he couldn't do much of anything if something were to happen and Jaskier calling him a self-sacrificing sap and cuddling him extra hard. - anonymous_

Eskel sits bolt upright, breathing out a soft, fervent, “Fuck,” into the dimness of the bedroom. Geralt makes a sleepy noise of curiosity, groping across the blankets until he finds Eskel’s leg and patting it clumsily. Jaskier props himself up on Geralt’s other side.

“Eskel, love, what’s toward?”

“Nothing,” Eskel rasps.

“Oh, that’s your ‘something is actually wrong but I’m being stoic again’ tone,” Jaskier sighs, and wriggles out from under the blankets to crawl over Geralt and settle behind Eskel, winding his arms around Eskel’s chest. Geralt curls closer to both of them, humming a soft, comforting sort of noise under his breath. “Really, Eskel, what is it?”

Eskel sighs and leans back into Jaskier’s embrace, covering Geralt’s hand on his leg with one of his own. “Just…dreamed of that cell,” he says quietly. “Of what might have happened if Milena didn’t have lockpicks for hairpins. I was - I was too hurt to defend you.”

“Oh, love,” Jaskier sighs, and leans his head against Eskel’s shoulder, breath warm against bare, scarred skin. “Oh, my heart. We would have managed. I’m not so helpless as all that, and neither is Milena.”

“We were searching the forest,” Geralt puts in. “Another two, three hours, probably, before someone caught your scent.”

Eskel swallows hard. “Still too long,” he rasps. “Still too much chance of -” he breaks off and bites his lip, almost hard enough to draw blood. “I can’t see you _hurt_ , catmint.”

“And I wasn’t,” Jaskier murmurs. “I wasn’t, and I won’t be. You keep me safe, my love, my sunlight, strong and steady as the mountains themselves.”

He smells like love and sleepy contentment, and he is warm and alive and _there_ , holding Eskel close. Eskel closes his eyes and sighs, sagging into the embrace, into his lovers’ hands.

“Always,” he says at last. “I will keep you safe.”

“Yes, you will,” Jaskier murmurs, and presses a kiss to Eskel’s shoulderblade. “You will. I know it.”

“So do I,” Geralt agrees. Somehow, they tug Eskel back down onto the mattress between them and curl around him, holding him close, surrounding him in the scents of love and contentment.

“We’re safe,” Jaskier whispers. “We’re safe, Eskel, my sunlit darling. All will be well.”

Eskel doesn’t sleep again that night, but he lies there listening to two steady heartbeats, and thinks that he could spend the rest of his life hearing no music but that, and be content.


	2. Kittens

_Oh god inex help I live in the US I need a distraction please tell me you have a tiny bit of fluff you can spare - anonymous_

*

Nosy is very, very proud of his first litter. Climbs-the-Rafters is a queen among queens, noted for her courage and good sense, and that she was willing to let _him_ sire her newest litter is a source of great pride.

There are five kittens in the litter, and when they are old enough that Climbs-the-Rafters allows them to leave her side, Nosy leads them slowly and carefully through the Cold Stone Halls to the cave where Quiet-Thunder and Sings-A-Lot spend their afternoons. Quiet-Thunder makes soft mouth-noises when he sees them, and holds very still, and Nosy carefully lifts each of his kittens into Quiet-Thunder’s lap, and curls around the whole clowder of them - Quiet-Thunder’s lap is lovely and big, and can hold five kittens and a tom with ease.

Quiet-Thunder strokes one big finger over the tiniest of the kittens, a little white queen who is the fiercest of them all, and Nosy watches with propriety pride as his kittens learn that the Predator Two-Legs are, indeed, good at providing pets.

(Jaskier carefully never mentions the fact that Aubry nearly cried when the cat brought him _kittens_ to hold.)


	3. Roland in Ard Carraigh

_Small scene for you, to take or leave as you like: you know that shoulder check thing boys do (and some men who should really know better) when they are trying to be tough? Some chinless-wonder of a lordling tries it on a trainee/brand new Witcher who doesn't look much older than him (a Griffin probably, they are the most likely to be at court and their politeness would make them appear 'soft' to that sort), egged on by their cronies. But the Witcher doesn't budge and the Lord BOUNCES off 😏 - fantacyjunky_

Roland isn’t sure he likes Ard Carraigh. It’s loud and crowded and smelly in a way Kaer Morhen never is, and besides the odors of unwashed bodies and sewage, everyone smells just a little bit frightened when they see him or Orn. He’s used to the servants at Kaer Morhen, who aren’t afraid of anything, and will scold or embrace a Witcher without hesitation.

He also doesn’t think much of the parties. There’s dancing, which is nice, but it’s nothing like as energetic or enthusiastic as the dancing in Kaer Morhen, and the musicians are pleasant enough, but cannot hold a candle to the Consort, at least in Roland’s opinion. And people get drunk and sneak off to have sex and then smell guilty about it, or get even drunker and get into fistfights that are genuinely angry, not just amiable brawling, and really it’s just uncomfortable.

He’s standing near a column, pretending to sip from the goblet of wine in his hand, when a particularly drunken young lordling, smelling like wine and fear and arrogance (which doesn’t really have a smell, but it’s certainly got a _look_ , and this boy has it) comes swaggering up and accidentally-on-purpose knocks his shoulder against Roland’s, clearly intending to send him sprawling or at least make him spill his wine.

Roland doesn’t move.

He might look small compared to Orn, and he may be as young as he looks, but he is a _Witcher_ , and he may as well be rooted in the stone for all that a drunken fool of a lordling could move him if he doesn’t care to be moved.

The lordling _bounces_ , staggering backwards and nearly falling over before one of his cronies catches him. Roland considers all the possible responses, and decides that it’s probably best to just ignore the matter. He takes a very, very small sip of his wine - nice, but nowhere near as good as the mead the Bears make - and pretends he’s engrossed in the dancing.

The lordling sputters, but he backs away when Orn comes ambling over to stand beside Roland. “So,” Orn murmurs, too low for human ears. “How are you liking court life?”

“…Please tell me we can go kill a monster soon,” Roland mutters back. Orn chuckles and claps him on the back.

“Rumors of a wyvern a day’s ride south - we leave tomorrow. And after that, we’re summoned home.”

“Oh, thank the _gods_ ,” Roland breathes. He can’t wait to leave this place - can’t wait to return to Kaer Morhen, where people make _sense_.

And, of course, where Julita will be waiting.


	4. Ears

_A tiny Accidental Warlord-verse snippet, inspired by @sham-woohoo:_

Ciri has been crying for eight hours, fourteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds, and Geralt is about three more minutes of crying from absolutely losing his mind. She isn’t wet, she isn’t hungry, she isn’t colicky, she isn’t teething, she isn’t too cold or too hot or too tightly wrapped or too _loosely_ wrapped or being bitten by bugs or bruised by a bit of rock beneath her blanket or anything else Geralt can figure out, and she won’t stop crying.

He drops his head into his hands and stares at the wailing infant between his fingers. “Ciri. _Please_ ,” he begs. She screams louder.

“Does she want a toy?” Eskel ventures from the doorway. He has earplugs in, the absolute bastard.

“She doesn’t want any of her toys, or my hair, or to be walked or rocked or fed or bathed,” Geralt says. He’s pretty close to screaming _himself_ at this point.

“Distract her?” Eskel suggests.

“Oh yes, because I haven’t tried that - what, do you want me to wiggle my fucking ears?” Geralt snaps.

“Have you tried that?”

“…No,” Geralt says. And at this point, he’d probably try just about anything, so he leans over Ciri’s crib, catches her eye - she keeps wailing - and very deliberately wiggles his ears as hard as he can.

Ciri’s mouth shuts and her eyes go wide, and she reaches up with one pudgy hand. “ _Ga?_ ”

“Oh thank fuck,” Geralt mutters, and does it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I've finally done it, I've written Geralt's POV in the AW AU. And it's him wiggling his ears at baby Ciri.
> 
> ...This is very on-brand for me, I feel.


	5. Mighty Hunter

Aubry has big hands, scarred and callused, better suited to war than peace. He’s strong enough to bend an iron bar and dexterous enough to thread a needle if he must, though mending is not his favorite pastime. His hands have cradled baby Ciri and tiny Julian, have held dying men in their last moments and stitched together living ones to rise and fight again, have wielded steel and silver alike with consummate skill.

He’s never felt quite so worried about using them wrong as he is when the black-and-white cat deposits a tiny pure-black kitten in his palm.

The little creature is small enough that it doesn’t even fill the hollow of his palm, and so light and soft that he almost thinks it might be a bit of goosedown, which will float away if he breathes on it wrong. It looks up at him with wide green eyes, their slitted pupils so like his own, and squeaks.

Very carefully, he cradles the tiny thing to his chest and offers it a finger from his other hand. It sniffs his finger and squeaks again, demandingly. He runs his finger over its head, so gently he can barely feel its fur against his skin.

It squeaks again and leans into his finger, and begins to purr, the sound all out of proportion to its size.

Aubry swallows against the lump in his throat. It’s so small, and so fragile, and so soft.

And, he discovers a moment later as it rolls onto its back and latches onto his finger with all of its claws, extremely pointy, too. He chuckles and wiggles his finger, and the kitten squeaks and scrabbles at his skin - far too callused and tough to be pierced by a kitten’s claws - and lashes its little tail.

Jaskier makes a tiny sound of amusement. “Mighty hunter you’ve got there,” he teases.

“So it is,” Aubry agrees. “A mighty hunter indeed, aren’t you, little one.”

The kitten squeaks again. Aubry’s cheeks hurt with his smile.


	6. Kings' Wives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was asked what became of the wives of the kings Geralt and his army have overthrown...

The king of Kaedwen, nameless and accursed be he, had no living wife. I’m sure we all can guess why.

*

Kathryne of Temeria, who was once Kathryne of Neunreuth in Nazair, spits at Eskel’s feet. “The only part of this that I regret is that the monster you call your lord survived,” she says, and Eskel’s blade flashes as he raises it.

She is buried beside her husband.

*

Adelina of Redania looks up into the golden eyes of her death and wonders if it will hurt. “No, my lord,” she says quietly. “I knew nothing of this matter.”

It won’t matter that that’s the truth, she knows that. She is Vizimir’s second wife, the decorative one, married for her pretty face and handsome dowry and nothing more; she has some skill in arranging court entertainments, in organizing balls and concerts and feasts, and Vizimir paid her very little attention outside of the bedchamber, save to pat her on the head occasionally after a particularly well-done evening at court, like she was a dog which had performed an amusing trick to perfection.

She waits for the Warlord to raise his sword, but instead he - he nods, and turns away. What, is she not royal enough to meet his blade?

Someone else steps up and reaches down to take her arm, urging her to her feet. She looks up - gods, these Witchers are all so _tall_ \- and flinches from the sight of hideous scars. The Witcher snorts softly. “Right then,” he says. “Obviously you aren’t queen anymore. Have you got someplace you can go?”

“What?” Adelina says. She’s - she’s not dead. She’s not dead?

“You didn’t know anything about Aren, so you’re not on our shit list,” the Witcher says, jerking his head towards the gaunt Witcher who slew Vizimir and the four young women clustered around him. “You did know we can smell lies, right?”

No, Adelina did _not_ know that, as it happens. Nor did she think it would matter. Her innocence _wouldn’t_ matter to...well, any other king in the world.

Apparently it matters to the Warlord.

“I do not think my family will welcome me,” she says slowly, thinking it through. “Perhaps one of the temples will allow me sanctuary.”

“Huh,” says the Witcher. “Well, I guess we’ll see how this all shakes out.”

Some hours later, Adelina rises from making her oath of fealty to the new King Dawid, and Dawid stops her before she can back away. “My lady,” he says quietly, “I know it would be something of a reduction of rank, but - would you accept a position as my Lady Seneschal? I know very little of organizing a court, but anyone who has been paying attention knows that it is you who have organized every court event for the last decade.”

Adelina dips into another deep curtsey, buying herself a few seconds for furious thought. King Dawid is offering her a chance to perform the same duties she has been doing for the last decade...with a title and respect for doing so, and no need to share his bed. Put that way, she would be a damned fool to refuse.

“It would be my honor to do so, sire,” she says, and steps smoothly to one side, beckoning the usher to join her as the next noble moves up to swear his fealty. The usher looks downright relieved as she begins to give quiet orders on how to bring some sort of tidiness to the chaos of the household, and Adelina finds herself smiling. She knows how to do this, and keeping King Dawid’s court in order is almost guaranteed to be more pleasant than doing the same for her late and entirely unlamented husband.

All hail the Warlord, indeed.


	7. Eist Realizes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some days after his visit to Kaer Morhen, Eist realizes why the Warlord looked so familiar.

“And am I welcome in your bed tonight, my Lioness?” Eist asks, bowing over Calanthe’s hand as they reach the door to the royal chambers, three nights after his brief and astonishing visit to Kaer Morhen and Redania.

“I ought to make you sleep in your own rooms again,” Calanthe grumbles. “You’ll turn my hair white with your antics, you fool - going off with _Witchers_ , for fuck’s sake.”

“And coming back as hale as I left,” Eist reminds her, smiling. “For that matter, I’ve got more white hairs than you do.” He runs a hand through his hair, eyeing the pale strands in among the dark. “What do you think, should I begin to dye it, so I look young enough to be a properly decorative Consort to my Queen?”

“Wretch,” Calanthe grumbles, hauling him in through the doorway. “I don’t know why I put up with you.” She stops whatever jest he’s planning to make with her own mouth, kissing him breathless and shoving him backwards onto the bed. Eist gladly sets aside jesting in favor of doing proper homage to his fierce, flame-tempered Lioness; and when she is done with him, he sleeps very well indeed.

...At least for a few hours.

“Bloody fucking hell and hurricanes!” he snarls as he wakes, sitting bolt upright and staring unseeing into the darkness of the bedchamber. Calanthe is awake in seconds, groping for the sword propped against the bed.

“What’s toward?”

“That - that - _that’s how I know the fucking -_ ” Eist loses his grasp on the common speech and swears in Skelliger for several minutes. Calanthe puts the sword back down and sits up, eyeing him curiously. When he finally subsides, panting, she applauds.

“I haven’t heard swearing like that since Crach lost a sailing race. What’s gotten you so riled?”

“I told you the Warlord seemed familiar,” Eist says, still almost unable to believe what he’s realized. “I’ve just figured out why. Unless he has a brown-haired twin, the Warlord of the North was at Pavetta’s betrothal dinner.”

“Brown-haired - _Eric of the Wolf School_ ,” Calanthe says, jaw dropping. “I will be _dipped in shit_.”

“...Probably not the most effective hair dye,” Eist says thoughtfully, and Calanthe stares at him for a long moment before putting a hand over her eyes and sighing.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. One of these days I really will have you thrown in the dungeon, you know.”

Eist captures her free hand and kisses the knuckles one by one. “And even from the dungeon I shall make you laugh, my Lioness.”

Calanthe grumbles and shoves him back down onto the bed, sprawling over him and grumbling against his throat. “Deal with this in the morning,” she commands, muffled but firm.

Eist smiles into the darkness of the bed canopy. “Yes, my Queen.”


	8. Jan and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad (Not Utterly Irredeemable) Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jan has a terrible day; Letho helps make it a little better.

Jan has found that some days are just...wholly and irredeemably unpleasant. Not bad, he hasn’t had many genuinely _terrible_ days since he came to Kaer Morhen, but the sort of days when everything goes just a little wrong, when inanimate objects seem to have minds of their own and slip through people’s fingers or hide themselves, when a dozen tiny matters boil over all at once and he has to spend the whole day putting out physical and metaphorical fires while feeling like he’s running just as fast as he can to stay in place.

Today has been like that. Thankfully, today is over. It is well past supper-time, the kitchen fires have all been banked, Julita is asleep (he checked twice), the leaky barrel in the cellar has been located and the leak plugged, the cat who chose to have kittens in Lady Milena’s wardrobe has been successfully relocated and Lady Milena’s clothing taken to be cleaned, the geese who got loose in the stables (not the little menace’s work for once, she always owns up to her pranks and she swears this one wasn’t hers) have been rounded up and stuck back in the goose pen, the small explosion in the main courtyard thankfully didn’t do any harm to anyone save a few minor burns to the Cranes who thought that was an appropriate place to experiment, Marlene has agreed to use the soured milk for _something_ and the dairymaid and stableboy who distracted each other long enough for the milk to sour have been roundly scolded and are apparently contrite...

It’s been a long day.

Now the only thing left is sorting through the stack of parchments he spilled an entire bottle of ink on when the explosion startled him, so he knows what he has to re-write tomorrow, and he can go to bed.

There’s a light on in his office, and the sound of someone moving around. Jan scrubs a hand over his face and stifles a sigh. He is very tired, and he doesn’t want to deal with whoever is waiting for him, but he doesn’t exactly have a choice. He pushes the door the rest of the way open and pauses, blinking.

Letho is sitting at his desk. There’s a neat heap of ink-stained parchments on the floor, weighed down by a spare dagger, and the papers that Jan so hastily moved off the desk to keep them from the spreading ink spill have been put back, neatly sorted into what certainly looks like the appropriate piles. Letho is very carefully cleaning off each of Jan’s quill pens and putting them back in their jar.

“Ah,” Jan says. Letho looks up and offers a crooked little smile.

“Hey, thought you’d be abed by now.”

“I was...coming to do this, actually,” Jan admits, and ventures over to the desk to find that Letho has put everything back just as it ought to be. Apparently he’s memorized Jan’s organizational style sometime in the last dozen years. “Thank you.”

“Eh,” Letho says, shrugging as he puts the last quill gently in the jar and sets the jar in its accustomed spot. “Seemed like the thing to do.” He wrinkles his nose. “You smell fuckin’ exhausted. G’wan, get. Nothin’ more to do here.”

He stands, and Jan gives in to an almost irresistible impulse and throws his arms around the big Viper in a hug. Letho goes very still for a moment and then wraps an enormous arm around Jan’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” Jan says after a moment, pulling away and straightening his tunic a little awkwardly.

“Eh, I’d do as much for any of my siblings, wouldn’t I?” Letho says, shrugging. “Wasn’t any trouble.”

Jan grins, knowing that any further outpouring of gratitude will probably make Letho retreat in confusion. “Saved me a good hour’s work, all the same,” he says mildly, and stifles a yawn. “I think I will head for bed, then.”

“I’ll close up here,” Letho says, and Jan pats him on the arm and leaves him to it, warm in the knowledge that he need not worry; his office is quite safe in his brother’s hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to everyone who sends in asks for me to fill on tumblr, and to everyone here on AO3 who leave kudos and comments, which make me so happy I cannot put it into words!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Like Stones in a Running Stream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28082271) by [AceOfTigers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfTigers/pseuds/AceOfTigers)




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